


can't get home on your own

by mercaque



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Ableism, Eventual Fluff, Fear of Flying, M/M, Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Past Brock Rumlow/Bucky Barnes - Freeform, air travel AU, past abusive relationship, references to offscreen domestic violence, some characters expressing chicago bears hate which i apologize for in advance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-14 04:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercaque/pseuds/mercaque
Summary: Turns out, being seated next tothisasshole on the flight from Chicago to D.C. might be one of the best things ever to happen to him.





	1. Sam

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to this bunch of airport-related AU prompts, which came across my dash recently and inspired this story: http://tickatocka.tumblr.com/post/101530238776/airport-related-aus-tho-i-fell-asleep-on-your

On a bench just past the Midway airport security line, Sam Wilson pulled his cap back on and tucked his boarding pass into his messenger bag. He leaned down to re-tie his shoes, and tried not to notice that his hands were already beginning to shake.

He’d cleared the airport security check easily, but he almost, _almost_ wished he hadn't. If they'd refused him entry, then he could avoid this flight completely. He could turn around, get a rental car, and just drive from Chicago to D.C. He'd be dead tired at the clinic tomorrow, and he definitely didn't relish the idea of spending the rest of the day on I-90. But all that still might be better than thinking about the flight ahead.

_\--readings can’t be right, I don't know what's happening--_

_\--controls won't respond!--_

_\--Sam... Sammy, I love you--_

The intrusive thoughts were already starting, a queasy almost-panic burbling up in his chest. Sam finished tying his shoes, and sat back on the bench with a sharp exhale. _Stop_ , he thought. This wasn't going to happen. He'd been OK on the flight to Chicago a few days ago. He could do this. He was good. 

He nearly sprang off the bench when his cell phone rang.

The ringtone continued its abrasive melody for another few seconds while Sam collected himself. On its final ring he fished it out of his pocket, and smiled at the caller ID. His sister. Of course.

"Hey, Sarah," Sam said. He considered it an accomplishment that his voice was steady. "How's married life treating you?"

Sarah laughed. "All 36 hours of it have been great," she said. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No," he said. "No, it's good. Just got through security."

"Oh! I knew you were flying out today, but I thought it was later," Sarah said. She paused. "…Are you doing all right with that?" 

Sam's stomach curdled. "Just fine."

“You sure?” 

_“Yes_ , I’m sure.” 

"Well, good." Sarah only sounded a little skeptical. "It means a lot to me that you came out this weekend."

"It was your wedding,” Sam said. “Of course I came out for it.”

"Well, I know. But it really made me happy to have my baby brother there," she said. "Especially because I know none of this was easy on you." 

"Sarah," he complained. _“Stop._ I’m fine.” 

"I'm sorry, baby,” she said. "It's just that I'm proud of you. You've really come a long way."

"Thanks," Sam said stiffly. He decided that if Sarah wouldn’t move on, he would. "I thought you and Ray would be on your way to Hawai'i by now."

"Oh, we're still packing. We leave for the airport tonight," Sarah said. 

"Are you guys still doing the volcano tour?"

"Yes!" Sarah exclaimed, and she was off, chattering about the itinerary she and her new husband had planned.

Sam half-listened, more to the excitement in his sister's voice than the words. She was thrilled to be traveling. It was so infectious that Sam almost felt his own nerves relaxing, as if his own flight home would be just as good. 

Almost. His heart was still fluttering too fast, and he couldn’t keep his foot from jiggling.

While Sarah talked, Sam's gaze drifted out over the security area he'd just cleared. As if he were sending out some kind of radar signal, he landed on a pair of eyes just as tense and unhappy as Sam felt.

Pale eyes, a light clear blue, belonging to a white guy who’d been pulled out of the security line for a more thorough check by the TSA agents. The guy wore a baggy brown coat, a red henley and dark jeans, all of which were noticeably weatherworn. He'd lifted his right arm at the security agents' request, but the left arm hung crooked and motionless. It took Sam a second to realize it was a prosthetic arm. Maybe that was what had tripped the security check. It was either that or the guy’s rough appearance: sharp features, mouth drawn thin and tight, hair shaggy, and jaw decorated with thick scruff. Sam decided the guy’s look was riding the line between dirty-hot and straight-up serial killer. 

But if the guy’s appearance was at all fearsome, his behavior wasn't. He was perfectly still and compliant as the security agents groped up and down his legs and across his midsection, even if his eyes gave away his humiliation.

Sam realized too late that he was staring. The guy’s gaze found his, and they locked eyes for a moment. Sam offered what he hoped was a small, encouraging smile. The guy immediately scowled and looked away. Sam dropped his own gaze, stung.

"...Sam?" came his sister's voice. "Sam, are you listening?"

"Yeah, of course," he said. "Dolphin tours. You're gonna love it."

Sarah snorted. "You must be awful busy at that airport if that's the last thing you heard. I'll let you get to your flight."

"Sorry," Sam said. "Sorry, I didn't mean to..." 

"Sam." Sarah was quiet for a moment. "It's okay. You got this."

"Yeah." He swallowed. "I love you."

In the last three years Sam had started saying things like that more often, even if he ended up sounding corny. Sarah sounded a little sad as she answered: "Love you too, baby. You'll be home before you know it."

Sam stared down at the phone for a few moments after the call ended, steadying his breath. Sarah’s call had been a nice diversion, but he couldn't linger here forever. He cast a final glance back at the security line. The dirty-hot guy was pulling his coat off one-handed while a TSA agent waited impatiently. Sam shook himself, and got up. 

He walked through the concourse as if he had purpose, passing by little gift shops and coffee counters, until he found a restaurant with a bar. The bar was well-stocked, with a TV blaring a Raiders-Broncos game. Sam didn’t particularly care about either team, but football was football, and he had time to kill before his flight boarded. 

He perched on one of the stools and ordered a tall glass of beer. He knew drinking wasn't the best way to deal with his dread of flying, but he'd never had any luck with prescription meds. They hit him too hard, left him feeling so drowsy and confused that he could barely navigate his own apartment, let alone a busy airport. So beer it was.

Sam had sucked down his first glass and was close to the end of a second, a little more relaxed and absorbed in the second quarter of the game, when he registered the presence of someone settling down a seat away from him. 

He glanced over, and jolted in surprise when he realized it was the dirty-hot guy from the security line. The guy had slung his ratty black backpack around so that it was cradled against his front, and hunched over. His shoulders were raised, his eyes watchful and anxious. He kept peering at the door, and then up at the TV in annoyance, and then at the collection of bottles behind the bar. Eventually he risked a look over to Sam, seeming to study him intensely for a flash of a second. The guy’s lips parted, as if he might say something; but after a second he closed his mouth, swallowing it, and hunched in further. 

Up close, the guy didn’t resemble a serial killer so much as a kicked dog. Well, shit. The extra security check must’ve been rough.

Sam lifted his head, and called over sympathetically: “They finally let you through, huh?” 

The guy twitched. “Yeah.”

“Never know what’s gonna set ‘em off. I bet you got ‘randomly’ selected.”

The guy’s lips, Sam would have sworn, registered the barest hint of amusement. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t look like they went easy on you, either.”

Wrong thing to say. Sam knew it immediately by the way the guy’s shoulders snapped tight and his face clouded over.

“Hey, look, nevermind. My name’s Sam.” He nodded towards his glass. "Feel like a beer?" 

"Why?" snapped the guy. "You liked the show back there?"

"Jesus, dude." Sam recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "No. Just figured you could take the edge off."

"Don't tell me you feel sorry for me."

"Actually, I was gonna say I was sorry for staring at you back there,” Sam answered, “but I get the sense that's not gonna go down too well either." 

"You know, I didn't ask you to talk to me."

"And I didn't ask you to randomly be a dick." Sam swallowed the last of his beer, shoved a couple of bills under the glass, and got up. "Whatever. Have a nice flight."


	2. Bucky

Bucky did order himself a beer after Sam left. But he could only drink two mouthfuls before his stomach churned. 

God, he'd _fucked_ that up.

He felt like shit. His skin still crawled with the reminder of the security guard's touch. Meaty, aggressive hands pushing their way up his legs, pulling at his prosthetic so hard it hurt. Bucky hadn't been touched so aggressively in four months, not since he'd escaped from Brock, and he was still vaguely surprised the security people had decided to stop. Back when he'd been with Brock, it wouldn't have been over until Brock was good and done with him.

No. Nononono. Bucky shook himself. _Don't think about that._

He'd done a good job -- forgetting. It was all over. He was leaving Chicago for good, hopefully forever, and he'd never have to deal with any of it again. Bucky's shoulders remained taut, his gaze watchful. He was so close to getting away. But he couldn’t fight down the terror that Brock would pop up at the last second and drag him out of the airport.

Stupid. That wasn’t going to happen. And Bucky was _sick_ of feeling like he couldn’t relax for two seconds. He took another aggressive gulp of his beer, wishing he'd taken the cute guy up on the offer of a drink.

 _Cute guy?_ his brain supplied in disbelief.

Well, yeah. 

Sam, whoever he was, had ridiculously perfect cheekbones and a killer smile. He'd been wearing a stylish lavender golf cap and a leather coat. Under the coat had been a white T-shirt, thin enough the warm brown tone of Sam’s skin and the shift of his muscles could be detected beneath. Sam had nice eyes, ink-dark and lively. Whatever shame Bucky had felt that Sam had seen him in the security line, it was fading. Too late, he realized the sharp, urgent feeling Sam had provoked was desire, rather than just plain irritation. 

Bucky shut his eyes tight. He was an _idiot._

He tried another drink of beer and pulled a face. It had gone flat. After a few more tries, Bucky gave up and pushed the beer away. He tucked a few bills under the glass -- some of the money Steve had sent him, certainly not intended to be used on beer, but what Steve didn’t know wasn’t gonna kill him -- and hopped down off the barstool. 

He shambled his way through the concourse until he located his gate. A13. Bucky realized he was tired; he'd slept outside the night before, in an alleyway near the cheap gym where he'd scraped together money for a membership (mostly for the purpose of taking showers there). As a result, his neck and back ached, and sleep still itched at his eyes, since he'd been too wound up and nervous about seeing Stevie again to really sleep well.

The gate waiting area was packed, with only one or two free seats left. Bucky picked his way over to the nearest one, slung off his backpack and flopped down. On one side of him was a child, whose prim blonde mother pulled him slightly closer and shot Bucky a suspicious look. He scowled. He'd really tried to clean up for his little trip, but apparently it hadn't worked so well. On the other side of Bucky was a businessman, if the crisp suit and laptop were any indication, who was yammering loudly on his cell phone about _the deal, need to nail this deal down TODAY, BILL._

The businessman reeked of minty cologne. Bucky had barely taken a breath when he sneezed. Before he knew it, he'd sneezed six times in a row. Ugh. The blonde mom was giving him an even nastier look, and some other people were glancing at him too. Fine. Fuck. Bucky hauled up his backpack and abandoned the seat, moving towards a far wall and leaning against it. He sneezed a few more times, and then, thankfully, stopped. 

He exhaled a long, slow sigh of frustration, and surveyed the crowd wearily. Families, couples, young people excited about where they were going. Then he spotted a lavender golf cap, and winced. Great. In addition to everything else, of course it figured he’d end up on the same flight with Sam. 

Sam didn't seem to notice him, though. In fact, he seemed not to be paying attention to much of anything around him. His messenger bag was in his lap and his arms were wrapped tight around it; he was hunched forward and brooding down at some invisible point on the ground. The bright, gap-toothed smile he'd flashed at Bucky had faded into a small, forlorn line, and his left foot tapped uncontrollably against the floor. Whatever Sam was going to D.C. for, he looked like he was dreading it. 

Guilt churned in Bucky's chest. Maybe he wasn't the only one who’d needed to take his mind off things. That's probably why Sam had tried to reach out. A normal person would have accepted the beer. They would've talked about the sports game on TV, about the Chicago weather, the usual bullshit. Sam would've smiled at him again, and Bucky would've been charmed by that little gap in his teeth.

Bucky sighed to himself. It was probably just as well that he'd blown it. He wasn't in any shape to be around people. He still wasn’t even sure he could face Steve. 

Eventually, boarding was called. The passengers rose, and Bucky lost sight of Sam's lavender golf cap in the crowded line. That was the end of that, he supposed. 

When it was his turn, Bucky pulled his boarding pass from the breast pocket of his jacket for the gate attendant to scan. After a successful _beep_ , he was on his way through the corridor connecting to the plane. His feet struck the ground with purpose, picking up speed as it occurred to him that he was really doing this. He was _escaping._ He'd never see Brock again. 

That epiphany didn't fully lift Bucky’s mood, but it gave him a quick burst of giddiness. He listened to the high-pitched hum of the idling airplane engine, and breathed in cabin’s dry air, with something bordering on a smile. Even the line to get to his seat didn't bother him. He'd been assigned to seat 9B. It was a small plane, so row 9 was close to halfway back. The plane was three seats across, with the A seats by themselves on the left, and the B and C seats together on the right. The B seats were on the aisle. He’d have a seatmate, but whatever, he could deal with that. 

Right up until he got to his row, and spotted a lavender golf cap.

"Oh, God," Bucky blurted out before he could stop himself, upon seeing Sam sitting in 9C.

A scowl crossed Sam's face. "Don't worry, I won't talk to you. Learned that lesson."

"Fine," Bucky snapped back.

Sam had already pulled the window shade down. He crossed his arms, and went back to brooding and tapping his foot. 

Well, okay. Sam may not have liked him, but at least it seemed like he was going to keep to himself. Bucky slung his backpack off his shoulder and under the seat in front of him, and sat down. With his feet he shoved the backpack into place under the seat in front of him. Then he dragged the seat buckle across his lap. It took a few moments to get the belt to latch one-handed, but he managed it.

After this, Bucky settled back. He tapped his right fingers along his thigh, watching the line of passengers come slowly down the aisle. He scanned their faces, half-expecting any one of them to be Brock, or one of Brock's asshole cop friends. Nope. Just the same crowd he'd surveyed before. There was one woman who stared openly at Bucky's left arm as she passed by, a guy who all but shoved Bucky off the armrest in a hurry to get past. 

The businessman with the horrible mint cologne also passed by. Despite Bucky's attempt to shield himself by burying his face in the collar of his jacket, a violent sneeze overcame him. Sam shot him a wary look.

"It's that guy's cologne," Bucky said, sniffling. "I'm not contagious."

"Whatever," Sam muttered.

Fortunately, the businessman appeared to be seated at the back of the plane, or at least far enough away that his scent probably wouldn't have Bucky sneezing the entire way to D.C. He sniffled a few more times, rubbing at his nose until the irritation went away.

The line moved and dispersed, the passengers all eventually settling into their seats. Finally the doors were shut and the lights dimmed for takeoff. Bucky’s heart beat faster, excitement swelling. Okay. _Now_ he had made it. 

He relaxed back into his seat. It was cramped, but it was clean and cushioned, so that was an improvement over a lot of the places where Bucky had slept the last four months. He tipped his head back, letting his eyes fall shut and his breathing slow. The whine of the airplane’s engines grew louder as the plane started to move across the runway. 

When the plane turned and began to move faster, Bucky heard the sharp intake of breath beside him. He cracked open his eyes, and peered over. 

Sam's chest was going up and down, his hands plastered to the armrests. He'd turned his head away from the window and shut his eyes. The expression on Sam’s face was like… like he was trying desperately to go somewhere else, in his mind. 

Oh, Bucky realized. Well, he knew _that_ feeling all too well.

So maybe that was what Sam had been so miserable about in the waiting area. Was he afraid of flying? It must be serious, given that they hadn't even left the ground yet and Sam already looked like he might snap apart from tension. 

Poor guy, Bucky thought. He watched with concern, wondering if he should say something, or if that would only make things worse. He fretted about it while the plane moved along the runway, slowly cruising and turning again. Sam appeared to be holding steady: not getting worse, but not better either. 

Then the engine noise rose to a pitch and the plane jolted forward, picking up speed. Bucky's stomach dipped as the plane took to the air. Beside him, Sam made a strangled noise. 

As the plane ascended Bucky sat back, ignoring how the plane roared and rattled. But he couldn't fully ignore how Sam had curled forward a little, hands pressed against his face. His shoulders swelled up and retracted with each big, increasingly rapid breath he took.

"Hey," Bucky ventured, so hesitantly it was almost swallowed up by the noise of the airplane engine. He turned, and tried again louder: _"Hey."_

Sam turned his head, greeting Bucky with an acid glare.

"Hey, are you okay?" Bucky said.

 _"Fine,”_ Sam said, through gritted teeth.

Bucky wasn't sure what to say to that, since Sam was pretty obviously not fine. “…It's probably gonna be all right,” he tried.

This earned Bucky the fiercest eyeroll he'd ever gotten in his life. "If you want to be reassuring,” Sam ground out, “next time, you might want to leave out the word _probably_." 

"Yeah, well, it's not like I do this a lot," Bucky said.

“Be nice to strangers? Yeah, no, I already got that impression.”

"I meant flying!” Bucky said. "Is this your first time or something?" 

Sam sat up all the way up, indignant. "Are you _serious?_ No, this sure as hell is not my first time flying."

"Okay, okay," Bucky said. "I was going to say that flying gets better the more you do it, but forget it."

"Tch," Sam said. "I’ve probably logged more flight hours than anyone else here. Other than the crew. Guarantee I know more about flying than _you_.”

"How?" Bucky said. "If you hate it so much."

"That's kind of personal," Sam said. "Are we supposed to be cool now?"

"Look," Bucky said. "I didn't mean to snap at you, back there at the bar. You just caught me off guard."

"What, treating you like a human being?" Sam said.

“Well, maybe now I'm trying to be a human being back, you jerk."

"Huh.” Sam paused, gaze flicking over Bucky curiously, although he still didn’t look too impressed. “What changed your mind?" 

"I don't know." Bucky flipped up a hand in frustration. "Maybe I realized only an idiot turns down free beer."

Sam stared at him a minute, and then snorted. "Won't argue with you there."

Bucky huffed. "Thanks."

They were quiet a moment. The plane was still ascending, although they were much closer to leveling out. The seatbelt light was still on and the flight attendants hadn't yet started coming through with their carts. Sam seemed to have calmed slightly, though he was still breathing fast.

"So," Sam said. He swallowed, and ran a hand down the front of his jacket, smoothing it. "You have a name, or should I just call you the free beer hater?"

"I’m--" 

Bucky paused. Brock had always called him _James_ , sneering that _Bucky_ was a stupid kiddie nickname. In truth, he'd always just hated that the nickname originated with Steve, and had made it his personal mission to stamp _Bucky_ out of existence.

Well, fuck that.

"You can call me Bucky," he finally said.

"Had to think about that one a minute, huh?" Sam said. "I'd accuse you of making up a fake name, but I'm pretty sure you would've come up with a better one than that."

Bucky flushed. "It's a nickname, asshole," he said. "My real friends use it. You should feel honored."

"Honored. That's definitely how I've felt, dealing with you today."

"Good. I don't bestow the gift of my sparkling personality on just everyone," Bucky grumbled.

This made Sam laugh, actually laugh this time. Oh, God. He was so cute when he did that, his nose crinkling up and that gap in his teeth showing. 

"Man, you are something else,” he said. "All right, Bucky. Like I said before, I'm Sam."

"Nice to meet you," Bucky said. "This time." 

"This time." 

He reached across awkwardly to shake Sam's offered hand. "Sorry," he muttered. 

"It's cool." Sam’s gaze went to the prosthetic arm, unable to conceal a flicker of curiosity, but he didn't ask. "And um, like I said before, I didn't mean to stare when you were in the security line."

"It's okay," Bucky said. "I guess I didn't mean to... randomly be a dick." He tapped at his left arm. "I wasn't really ready for how intense the security thing was going to be."

Sam nodded. "That sucks," he said. "Did they just not know what to do with your arm, or...?"

"Yeah." Bucky shrugged. "They almost made me take it off."

"Shit. That's not right."

"Yeah, well, all in the name of making everyone safe." Bucky rolled his eyes.

"Does the airport security let you do anything like... call ahead the day before, or something?" Sam asked.

Bucky snorted. "That would imply I have my life together enough to do things like call ahead."

This amused Sam, but whatever he might have said was interrupted by a chime. Bucky and Sam both instinctively peered up. An announcement from the captain followed that they were officially at cruising altitude, and that they could expect to land in D.C. in about an hour and a half. Beside him, Sam took a deep inhale, and let it out, steadying himself. 

"You okay?" Bucky asked. 

"Yeah." Sam waved off the concern, but his eyes gave away his turmoil. "Yeah, I'm good."

"So what's with your flight hours, if you hate to fly?" Bucky asked. "Do you... have to travel for work, or something?"

"No," Sam said. "I work with birds, but my job's firmly on the ground."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "You hate flying, but you work with birds?"

"Shut up," Sam protested, but he laughed a little. "I'm a veterinary technician. That's my second career. Before that, I was a pilot."

"What, seriously?" Bucky said. "You used to fly these things?"

"Nothing as big as this," Sam said, gesturing around. "Mostly puddle jumpers, sightseeing tours. Even worked my way up to a medevac chopper." He looked away, softening. "...I used to love flying, actually."

"Oh," Bucky said. His stomach crawled a little bit. It wasn’t hard to deduce that something serious must have reversed Sam’s attitude. "Would it be - bad, if I asked what happened...?"

"We're gonna get personal now, huh?" Sam shifted in his seat. "A crash happened. Mechanical failure, nothing I could do. For some reason, I survived. My co-pilot didn't."

“God,” Bucky breathed. “Holy shit, seriously? I’m sorry.”

Sam shrugged. “Thanks,” he said. “It was three years ago.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Well, I guess I can see why you're...uh, having some trouble."

"I’m actually doing a lot better now,” Sam said wryly. "After it first happened, I couldn't even get back into a plane, not even one just sitting still on the ground, without – freaking out. Needless to say, that was the end of my piloting career." 

“So you started over as a vet?” Bucky said. “That’s really switching gears.”

“A vet technician, but yeah.” Sam shrugged. “Had some pet pigeons when I was growing up, you know? I like it.”

“That’s cool,” he said. “And it’s cool that you seem to have it so under control now.” 

“Yeah, well, let’s see if you still think that after we land."

Bucky chewed his bottom lip, not sure what to say to that, when the flight attendant's voice interrupted. 

"Can I get any drinks for you two?"

 _You two?_ A flush rose in Bucky's face, as he wondered exactly how she meant that. His brain helpfully reminded him Sam was cute, and that it wouldn’t be the most unflattering thing in the world if strangers assumed they were traveling together. But Sam didn’t seem to register any particular reaction as he ordered ginger ale, and so Bucky tried to follow suit as he asked for water.

“So,” Bucky said, his confidence growing. “What are you going to D.C. for?”

"Home. I live there," Sam answered. "I was just in Chicago for my sister's wedding."

"Oh," Bucky said. "Congratulations to her."

"Yeah. 'Bout damn time for those two, but that's another story,” Sam said. "What about you?"

"I guess you could say I'm going home, too," Bucky said. "I'm actually moving to D.C."

"Oh, yeah?" Sam brightened. "Hey, that's awesome. It's a great city. Don't be fooled, there's a lot more to it than the government." He glanced down at the backpack Bucky had stowed under the seat. "You sure packed light for a guy who's moving." 

Bucky scowled. "Well, I don’t exactly have a treasure trove of possessions."

"Yeah?" Sam asked.

"Yeah." Bucky picked at his jacket sleeve. "At the moment I’m kind of, uh, homeless." He looked up, with a prickle of defensiveness. "Hope that's not a problem for you."

Sam raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, we all go through tough times," he said. "I take it you've got somewhere to go now?"

"Yeah," Bucky said. "No offense, but if I was going to fly somewhere else to be homeless, it probably wouldn't be D.C."

"None taken," Sam said, laughing.

“No, I’m going to be staying with an old friend of mine.” Bucky shook his head, rueful. “He found out I was homeless and practically had a stroke. Even paid for my plane ticket for this little trip. Not sure I deserve that, but Steve’s as stubborn as it gets sometimes."

Sam frowned. "Why wouldn't you deserve it?"

"I don't know." Bucky shrank in on himself, his voice growing small. "Because I – stopped talking to him. For almost two years.”

"I assume you had a reason for that,” Sam said.

“Yeah, a shitty one.” Bucky paused. His breath caught in his chest, thick and uncomfortable. "Back in Chicago, I was in a relationship." He swallowed. "The person I was seeing. Didn’t, um. Like it when I talked to Steve." 

Sam lifted his chin, and understanding washed over his face. "Didn’t like it, huh."

Bucky's eyes flashed. "Yeah. And you don't have to tell me how fucked up that is. That I was so brainwashed by a relationship I cut off my oldest friend in the world for no reason. Steve should _hate_ me. Maybe he does, and he's just flying me out there so he can say it to my face."

Bucky abruptly realized his voice had risen, and silenced himself. Sam just observed him with a calm, curious expression.

"You thought I sounded like a dick before, huh?" Bucky finished, not quite hitting the attempt at a joking tone.

Sam shrugged. "You sound like someone who was in a shitty relationship," he said. "I assume you're not with that person anymore."

"No. That’s definitely over," Bucky mumbled, but he didn't quite know how much to say next.

 _That person._ Bucky hadn't specified that Brock was a man, sort of purposely, and Sam seemed to be just as purposely responding in kind. Bucky's heart started to pound a little faster. It was like Sam _knew._

"Hey," Sam said, "we can move on if it's too heavy." Mischief crept into his voice. "We could talk about about the Bears, if you're a Chicago guy."

Bucky wrinkled his nose. "I'm not a Chicago guy. I'm from Brooklyn."

"What?! Get outta here," Sam said, and gestured to himself. "Harlem."

"Oh," Bucky said, and a smile spread across his face. "Oh, cool. Really?"

"Yeah. Born and raised." Sam smiled back at him. "So you're not gonna get mad if I talk shit about the Bears."

Bucky laughed, strangled and breathless. "I don't really watch sports." The last time he'd seen a game, Brock had been screaming at the TV. Then the game had ended, and he'd turned on Bucky, still screaming-- "My ex was a huge Bears fan, actually."

"The shitty one you just left?" Sam said, and Bucky nodded. "Well, then, all the more reason to say fuck 'em. Right?" 

"Yeah." Bucky dragged in a breath. Wow. He didn't even want to _think_ about how Brock would've reacted if he'd so much as jokingly said it. But he dared, in a small voice: "Fuck the Bears." 

Sam broke into a loud laugh, clapping. "Damn right! I knew you weren't all bad." 

Nothing else happened. 

Nobody had erupted into screaming rage, nobody had started pushing him and demanding to know _the fuck, gimp, you think you're being cute?_ Nobody was going to hit him. Nobody was going to--

It was like there had been something knotted up painfully tight in Bucky's chest, something he hadn't even realized was there, that suddenly came loose. 

"Oh my God," Bucky said. For the first time in a very long time that he could remember, he _giggled_. He began to giggle sort of uncontrollably, laughter flooding up and spilling out of him. To other passengers he probably looked like he’d lost his mind. “ _Fuck_ the Bears.”

Sam crooked a grin. "Been holding that back for a while now, huh?"

"Yeah," Bucky said. "Yeah, oh my God, Sam, you have no idea. Do you even _know_ how much I hated it when a game would come on?"

Bucky might have said more, but the flight attendant arrived with their drinks. He scrambled to unlatch his tray one-handed, the attendant hovering over him with the small cup impatiently, before Bucky was able to take his water cup and set it down. She handed a cup of ginger ale to Sam, and then handed little plastic airline snack bags to both of them. Bucky tore his open with his teeth and began horsing down the salty-sweet crackers and peanuts. Sam, who appeared to have no appetite, tucked his away in his pocket.

They ate and drank in silence for a few moments. Sam's windowshade was still down, but if Bucky looked the other way and leaned forward a little, he could see out of some of the other rows' windows. The clouds were flying by, the sky wide open. The sense that he'd made his escape was keener than ever. Not only was he physically getting away, he was -- talking. Without being punished. That felt even more heady. 

"See,” Sam said, “I was just going to complain because my sister married the world's biggest Bears fan this weekend.” 

"Oh," Bucky said. "My sympathies."

Sam broke into a laugh. "Yeah. He's a great dude. He was just working my nerves a little bit,” he said. "Think he was banking on the fact that I didn't want to start anything on my sister's wedding day."

Bucky shook his head. "Well, if you need to get it all out, you know my feelings on the topic."

“Do I?” Sam asked. “Because me, I’m just complaining. But _you_ , on the other hand. You sound like you just finished a prison sentence."

Bucky's face dropped. Was he acting weird? Letting on too much? Maybe he wasn’t supposed to talk after all.

"Sorry," he muttered, taking a swig of his drink.

“I didn’t say you had to apologize for it," Sam said. 

"Well, I know, but..." Bucky gave an exasperated sigh. "You know, Sam, did anyone ever tell you you’re really perceptive?”

This caught Sam by surprise. He pulled back, laughing to himself. “Maybe not perceptive. But my sister would definitely say I’m too nosy for my own good,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry into your business. I'll stop."

"No, it's... I like talking, actually. I just haven't done it in a while.” Bucky looked down, swallowing. “I haven't even told Stevie most of what happened. He just thinks I ended up homeless because I broke up with… um, the person I was seeing… and I couldn't find another apartment."

“And that’s not what happened?” Sam asked.

“It’s not… all of it.” Instinctively, Bucky glanced around the plane again, as if Brock had somehow snuck on board. "We didn’t break up. I _escaped.”_

“Shit,” Sam said, with a low whistle. “Sounds like things got pretty bad.”

“You don’t have to dance around it,” Bucky said, with a sudden, unexpected flare of frustration. Not at Sam. At himself, at Brock, at – everything. “You can just ask if he hurt me.”

Sam’s eyes flew wide. But he stayed otherwise calm, his voice low and soft. “Gonna guess the answer to that question is yes.”

Bucky briefly shut his eyes. As much as talking helped, he didn’t know where to start. The broken ribs, the shame when strangers stared curiously at his bruises, the feel of a crushing hand around his windpipe. So he just settled for a tight nod.

Sam’s shoulders sank, and anger crossed his face. “That’s incredibly fucked up, that he did that to you.”

It took a good, long second for Bucky to comprehend that Sam was angry on his behalf. Not… _at_ him. And not because Bucky’s ex was a man. Only because Bucky had been hurt. That was new. That was new, and completely unexpected, and it felt like a hit to the solar plexus. He looked down, his eyes pricking slightly.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. Words started to bubble up, unexpectedly. “And he was a cop. So I couldn't report him. No one would believe me. He always said if I wanted to play that game, he could get me arrested for whatever he wanted, and we'd just see how well a gimp did in prison."

 _"Jesus,"_ Sam said.

"He got me fired from my job." Bucky's voice cracked a little; that was a humiliation he'd successfully forgotten about until now. "He made sure I had nothing. There was spyware all over my phone and the computer. I couldn't go anywhere. I couldn't send a single text without him knowing." His breath came faster, his chest starting to sting. "And none of it mattered. He still just got angrier and angrier with me every day, and I couldn't figure out what I was doing _wrong."_

Bucky's voice broke entirely. He awkwardly pressed the napkin against his bottom eyelids. "Sorry." 

"You're cool." Sam slid his napkin across his tray table. "You need mine?"

"I'm okay." He exhaled, shakily. "Uh, wow. Sorry to unload all that."

"Sounds like you needed to,” Sam said. “Besides, I asked.”

“’Cause you’re nosy,” Bucky replied, his throat still tight.

“You and my sister, man,” Sam complained mildly, but his gaze was serious and warm. “Listen. For whatever my opinion’s worth, I think it’s pretty badass that you managed to leave somebody like that."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "You don't need to try to make me feel better. I stayed for _two years._ I was an idiot."

Sam took that in, quietly. “You don’t have to answer this if it’s none of my business, but uh, did he have something to do with your arm?”

“Ha!” Bucky shook his head. “Not that I’d put it past him, but no. The arm happened back in high school. Broke it, didn’t take care of it, next thing I knew I was in the hospital with an infection up to the shoulder.”

Sam sucked air through his teeth. “Damn,” he said. “You’ve had a real run of luck there, huh.”

Bucky snorted. “Tell me about it,” he said. Then he admitted, softly: “Sometimes I think that’s why he – picked me, you know? ‘Cause it seemed like I was a good target. I guess he wasn’t wrong.”

“He _was_ wrong, actually,” Sam countered. “You got out of there.”

“I suppose.” Bucky pulled in his bottom lip for a moment, shrugging. 

“You only suppose?” Sam prodded.

“Well, no. I know,” he said. “I’m _never_ going back.”

“Good,” Sam said. 

“He tried to—“ Bucky swallowed, fingering at his collar. “He almost killed me.” 

Sam drained, sitting up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded. “We were having a fight, and he – started strangling me. I blacked out. When I woke up, I was still on the kitchen floor, where he’d left me. Truth is, I didn’t expect to wake up at all.” Bucky let his hand fall wearily on the tray table. "Stupid, huh? That’s what it finally took.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid to me at all,” Sam said. “Sometimes, you’re just… not ready to move on until you’re ready.”

“I guess.” Bucky took another drink of his water. 

“So you made your big escape.” 

“Yeah.” Bucky gave his backpack a kick. “Waited for him to go to work, put all my stuff in this, and walked out. I looked up a bunch of information on bus trips to Canada, on the computer where I knew he’d find it. I think that fooled him a little bit. I got a new phone, pre-paid, and threw the old one with all the spyware into the lake.” He took a shuddered breath. That had been one of the most terrifying days of his life. "Even with all that, he almost found me again a few times. I couldn’t stay at any of the shelters.” 

“And he never found you,” Sam said.

Bucky nodded. “I had a couple of close calls, but no, he never found me.”

"So you’re telling me you just straight-up _ghosted_ on some psycho cop?" Sam said.

"Well, I--" Bucky said. "I mean, I guess so."

"And you still think you're an idiot?"

Bucky's face fell. "I ended up on the street. It's not like I had some incredible master plan."

"You survived, though." 

Sam said it quietly, and in an instant, Bucky was reminded that they both had survived something terrible. 

"Yeah. I guess." Bucky shifted in his seat. “We’ll see how well that pans out in D.C.”

“No, listen.” Sam had leaned back, his head rolled so that he was facing Bucky intently. “It probably doesn’t feel like it, but just making that decision to get out? I think you already did the hardest part. Everything else is just rebuilding now. Even if you have some setbacks, those don’t matter. You did it.”

Bucky stared down at his tray table, face crumpling slightly. “That’s actually… really good to know,” he said. “You’re speaking from experience, huh?”

Sam’s eyes went heavy, and he nodded. “Different story, but I guess so.”

“When did it—” Bucky said. “After your – plane thing. When did you start to feel normal again?”

Sam laughed, a little harshly. "It'll let you know when that happens." He shook his head, looking away in thought. "I barely remember the first year afterward. I look back, and it's just... a blur. The stuff I do remember, it feels like watching a movie about someone else. Your brain will do some funny things to protect you."

Bucky sat up, nodding. “I’m already…” he frowned. “Sometimes I forget how bad it was. Other times, it’s all I can think about.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Things won’t feel like they did before. Maybe not ever again. But the really bad days, those start to go away eventually. They don’t disappear, but after a while they don’t feel so… constant.”

Bucky nodded to himself. 

"And, uh," Sam said, clearing his throat. "Not to push this on you or anything, but I found a support group that really helped me."

"A support group?" Bucky frowned. "Like people sitting around in a circle talking?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I mean, if you want to give it the most basic possible description, sure," he said. "I go to one for widowers, but there’s gotta be one for your situation, too. You don't have to talk right away, at least not if you have a good group. Sometimes it helps just knowing you're not the only one."

Bucky nodded. Then his brain caught on one particular detail. "…Widowers?"

Sam froze. 

Well, shit. Sam looked like he hadn’t meant to give that away. But now that he had, Bucky tried to get his head around it. Not that Sam had been married – _that_ wasn’t a surprise – but that he’d buried his spouse. That part seemed unthinkable. Sam was so... warm. And even-keeled. But as Bucky replayed their interactions to himself, he supposed it made an awful kind of sense. Like maybe Sam hadn't just been born thoughtful and perceptive, but deep grief had forced that clarity upon him.

“We’re getting really personal on this flight, aren’t we?” Sam murmured. 

"Uh," Bucky said. "We could always go back to talking shit about the Bears, if you want."

"Thought you didn't like sports.” 

“But you do,” Bucky said softly.

This drew a sad, wide smile across Sam’s face. “No, man, it’s OK.” He shrugged. “That co-pilot I mentioned. That’s who it was.”

Bucky drained. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, God, wow. I’m – really sorry.” 

“Yeah.” Sam ran a hand down his face. “We didn’t even have to fly together that day, but his dumb ass thought it would be fun. Like the old days, in flight school.” He cleared his throat, a pained noise. “That’s where we met.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. “He was – a man?”

Sam chuckled. “I didn’t think you’d sound so surprised.”

“I was – wondering, a little bit, why you didn’t seem to care that mine was...” Bucky shook his head. “Sorry.”

“You really can quit apologizing,” Sam said. “You already know I’m not shy about telling you when we have a problem.”

Bucky laughed, a little self-consciously. “Sor—OK,” he said. “What was your – husband? – like?”

“Fiance.” Sam clipped off the word, briskly. Then he reached into his coat pocket and drew out his phone. “Riley was something else. Personality for days. Believe it or not, I was the quiet one of the two of us.”

He scrolled until he found a picture. It was Sam and what must have been this Riley person, a burly blond guy. Riley had his arm around Sam’s shoulders and was staring down at him, and even in profile, the total adoration on his face shone through. And Sam – good God, he was a babyfaced version of himself, grinning big, with that cute gap in his top front teeth. He might have been as much as ten years younger. Bucky wondered if the picture had actually been taken that long ago, or if the loss of his fiance had aged him. He wondered if Sam had found the picture so quickly because of how often he looked at it, and he wondered if Sam had showed it to a lot of other people. If underneath that positive and pulled-together façade, he was as desperate to talk as Bucky was.

“You guys looked really happy,” Bucky remarked. “How long were you together?”

“Five years.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. It was good.” Sam’s mouth drew into a tight line. “Every now and then, I still have days where I wake up, and it takes a minute to hit that he’s gone.”

“Damn,” Bucky said. “Seems fucked up that my ex is still walking around with a badge, and yours…” 

“Believe me, I’ve been down that road more times than you want to know about.”

“Sorry,” Bucky said. 

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Apologizing again.”

“Oh, right.” Bucky rubbed at his head. “Habit, I guess.”

It occurred to Bucky that it was probably a habit left over from living with Brock, the frantic need to appease him before something bad happened. He bit his lip. He wouldn’t mention that to Sam. Besides, Sam had gone quiet. He’d put away his phone, and seemed intent on sucking every last drop of ginger ale off the ice cubes in his cup. 

“Hey, um,” Bucky said. “With your, uh, flying thing. Would it help if we changed seats? So you aren't next to the window?”

Sam twitched out of his thoughts. “What?”

“Do you—“ Bucky swallowed his words. Embarrassment had started to heat his face. “I mean, maybe it’s stupid. I was going to ask if sitting in the aisle seat would be better for you. Since you don’t like flying.”

“Oh,” Sam said, and softened. “Well, I really appreciate that. But actually, I sort of prefer the window so I can make sure the shade stays down. Seeing the outside, you know, still isn’t… great sometimes.”

“I’ll keep the shade down,” Bucky said. 

“Are you sure?” Sam said.

 _“Sam,”_ Bucky said. “I’m a dick, not a fuckin’ monster.”

Sam laughed a little, appearing to think it over. “I haven’t tried sitting on the aisle,” he said, and then shrugged. “I guess it’s worth a shot.”

Their seats were so cramped and tiny that both men had to stand up in order to change seats. They both filed out of the row, taking their respective bags with them; then filed back into the seats in reverse order, Bucky first by the window, and Sam second. They navigated around each other awkwardly during the process, Sam’s chest brushing Bucky’s side at one point, his solid warmth giving Bucky an unexpectedly pleasant jolt. And as Bucky settled in next to the window, he realized the cushions were still warm from Sam’s body heat. His right shoulder bumped against Sam’s left.

He lolled his head over and smiled at Sam, as it fully hit Bucky how – _comfortable_ he felt. Tension he didn’t even realize he’d been carrying had drained out of his muscles. It was like he’d lost a thousand pounds. For the first time he wasn’t just happy to be leaving Chicago, he was actually hopeful about what D.C. might have in store for him. 

Sam smiled back at Bucky. “You good?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Are you?”

“Good as I can be.” 

From there they fell into simpler conversation. Sam had moved to D.C. after his plane crash – partially because he’d found a good job there with an avian vet, but mostly because he needed a fresh start – and he liked his new home. He recommended restaurants, talked about the Metro ("way cleaner"), and about the sports teams ("you’re gonna be real glad you’re from New York"). Bucky, in turn, found himself rambling about Steve: how they’d both grown up in foster care, how they were the closest thing to family now that they’d aged out of the system. How Steve had gone abroad for the Peace Corps and come back with a shitload of muscles and a British girl he was head-over-heels for. Peggy worked for the British foreign service and Steve had co-founded a human rights organization. Bucky had last seen them two and a half years ago, at their wedding. 

The flight attendant came around and collected their trash, and Bucky barely noticed. Talking to Sam was... nice. Easy. He had forgotten what it was like to have a conversation like this, where you didn't have to watch everything you said. He’d leaned in close, their shoulders touching. Bucky couldn’t keep his attention from wandering along Sam’s jaw, the mischievous curve of his lips. He noticed the stretch of Sam’s jacket sleeves over his biceps, and the taunt of skin under Sam’s thin T-shirt. The fantasy of dragging Sam off and blowing him in the lavatory at the back of the plane flitted through Bucky’s mind, not that he had the nerve to pursue it. Maybe if they’d met two years ago… 

A chime sounded, drawing both Bucky and Sam’s attention. The pilot announced preparation for descent. 

Instantly Sam pulled away, the good cheer dying on his face. In just a second his shoulders had stiffened, his fingers tightening against the armrests. Oh, wow. His anxiety was so palpable Bucky could almost feel the clench in his _own_ belly. 

“Hey,” Bucky said. “You OK?”

“Yeah, fine,” Sam answered.

Just like when he’d said at the beginning of the flight, he was pretty obviously not fine. Again Bucky found himself at a loss for what to say.

“We’re going to be on the ground pretty soon,” he tried.

“Technically true,” Sam answered.

Bucky blinked, and then scowled. “I meant we’re going to _land safely_ , Jesus. Don’t be morbid.”

Sam hissed a laugh. “There’s that sparkling personality.” 

“Yeah, see? Aren’t you lucky we were seated together?” Bucky answered.

He wasn’t quite prepared for the look Sam gave him: sort of soft and taken off-guard. His dark eyes skipped down to Bucky’s chest and then back up, and Bucky felt the prickle of goosebumps along his own neck.

Then the plane turned, tilting at an angle, and then they dropped noticeably. Bucky’s ears popped hard, while Sam sucked in a fierce breath and shut his eyes. 

“Guess my bright idea to switch seats wasn’t so bright,” Bucky said.

“Sorry, man, I’m – sorry,” Sam said. “It was a good idea. I’m just… never really good with this part.”

“Now who needs to quit apologizing?” Bucky teased him lightly.

Sam grimaced. “Tch. You were waiting for that, weren’t you?”

“Yep,” Bucky said, with his most smug grin. “If I don’t get to say sorry, neither do you.”

“Not sure why I ever considered saying that to you in the first place…” 

Another turn and sharp dip. Sam recoiled all the way back into his seat, legs and arms stiff. _What the fuck is this pilot doing_ , Bucky almost griped, but then realized that would probably be the opposite of reassuring. And Sam was already strained enough.

“Hey,” Bucky said. He tapped his right fingers against Sam’s left. “Why don’t you hang on.”

Sam’s eyes cracked open, purely so that he could give Bucky an incredulous look. “To your hand?”

“Yes, to my hand,” Bucky said.

“Are you…” Sam glanced around. “Sure?” 

“It’s the only hand I’ve got, so yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Asshole,” Sam said, with a chuckle. But he was sliding his hand up the armrest, as if afraid to let go of it fully, and then found Bucky’s open hand. He traced his fingers up Bucky’s palm and interlocked their fingers. 

The actual slide of another person’s skin against his own jolted up Bucky’s arm, the warmth of it flaring under his skin. He’d asked for this, yes. But he still couldn’t help staring down at their enjoined hands with shock. Even as the plane descended and Sam’s grip grew uncomfortably tight, it wasn’t like when the security people had touched him, nor was it like when Brock used to hurt him. This was different. It was – a good touch. A humane one. The first touch like that Bucky could remember in a long time. 

Sam had closed his eyes again, and ducked his head straight down. The rise and fall of his shoulders, in time with his breath, was quick but steady. He didn’t seem to be getting worse, so maybe this was the best he could do right now. Bucky slid his thumb along Sam's top knuckle, back and forth, steady and even, in a touch he hoped was comforting. 

They sat like that as the plane descended, in a slow steady circle, until finally there was a loud roar of the plane touching down on the runway. The plane sped along for a few seconds and then began to slow, taxiing along until they reached the gate. 

Soon the plane came to a stop. Another chime sounded, and the cabin lights flicked on. Sam deflated massively, throwing his head back against the seat and letting out a long breath.

“See? We made it,” Bucky said.

“Yeah,” Sam grunted flatly, his eyes still closed. 

After a moment he opened them and looked down, seeming to remember that their hands were still linked. Awkwardly Sam unlaced his fingers from Bucky’s. They were trembling, and Sam quickly made a fist and tucked it against himself.

"Sorry," he muttered, sounding low and ashamed. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky said. He resisted the urge to call Sam on saying _sorry_ again. “I think only two of my remaining fingers are broken.”

“Oh, shut up. You know it wasn’t that bad.”

“Nah,” Bucky said, soft. “It really wasn’t.” 

Sam smiled to himself, but it was feeble. He otherwise fell silent. His hand was still knotted up, his eyes blank. Clearly, he hadn’t been kidding that he didn’t do well with landings. He was like a completely different person now, one who had been drained of all nerve and personality. Even as the other airplane passengers began to get up and form a line to leave the plane, Sam seemed to barely notice, still staring dully at the seat in front of him. 

Eventually Sam shook himself, apparently registering that it was time to go. He picked up his bag and moved into the aisle, pausing so that Bucky could get out of their row and go ahead of him. 

Bucky was tempted to hurry off the plane. But he looked back, and his chest caught. Sam was definitely not OK. He was moving forward, but he was badly unfocused, like it took all of his concentration to keep going. Bucky had an urge to reach back and take his hand again, but that would be weird. So instead he settled for keeping his stride purposely slow so that Sam wouldn’t be left behind, and casting a worried gaze over his shoulder every few seconds. 

"Bye, you two!" called the flight attendant as they left the plane.

That got Sam's attention for a second, and he looked up in surprise. Bucky shrugged, hoping the blush that had sprung to his face didn't show too much.


	3. Sam

Sam hurried through the corridor connecting the airplane to the gate, his footsteps picking up speed. The sooner he reached steady ground, the better.

He reached the end of the corridor and emerged into the airport proper. The gate’s waiting area was mostly empty, so he picked the nearest available seat and threw himself down. He sagged forward with his face in his hands, focusing hard on the soles of his feet, where they pressed down into the solidity of the floor. It was okay now. It was okay. His fingers still shook.

No matter how much Sam prepared himself for it, he still couldn’t handle the descent, that nauseating sensation of his chest floating up while gravity pulled everything else down. It always vaguely surprised him when the plane remained in control; that they didn’t just keep dropping and dropping helplessly. Focusing on Bucky’s steady grip had helped this time, at least a little bit. The fact that he’d needed to hold a stranger’s hand mortified Sam, but he shoved that down and decided he’d think about it later.

 _Bucky._ God. Sam had never felt so phony and ashamed in his life. He’d been so full of advice for Bucky’s problems, but when it really came down to it, he barely had a grip on himself.

Sam had no idea how long he sat there with his head down. But gradually he calmed, and the most immediate sense of terror passed. Following that came the all-too-familiar adrenaline crash. He let his head sink further into his hands, absolutely wrung out. He knew he was going to collapse into bed as soon as he got home, and his muscles would be shaky and sore for at least a few days. He’d be lucky if he could manage even a bare minimum level of concentration at the clinic tomorrow.

"Are you, um, going to be OK?" came Bucky’s voice.

Sam jolted, and turned his eyes up. Bucky was still there. He’d followed Sam over to the seat, and by the looks of it, he’d spent the last few minutes hovering sort of awkwardly. His eyes were big and fixed upon Sam with intense worry.

"Yeah.” Sam ran his hands over his face and exhaled a heavy breath. Then he forced himself to stand. "Let's go get our bags, huh?"

Bucky tilted his head, appearing not entirely convinced by Sam’s show of nonchalance, but he didn’t push. Instead, he pointed towards a nearby sign. “I think baggage claim’s that way.”

Together, they trailed through the long concourse. Bucky stayed close. As they moved towards the central part of the airport, they had to navigate through an increasingly busy crowd. Sam was still a little dazed, so it took him a few minutes to realize that Bucky had positioned himself so that he was just a step or two ahead of Sam, forging a path. He was putting that borderline serial killer face to good use, apparently, given the wary glances other people flicked towards him as they moved out of the way. At first Sam thought that was just how Bucky handled himself in a crowd, but as they went on, he noticed Bucky kept turning his head to check Sam was still there behind him. 

Bucky was watching out for him. 

Sam’s chest grew tight as the realization hit. That was – really unexpected, and unnecessary, and _nice._ And it was unbelievable to think this was the same person who’d snarled at Sam’s offer of a beer only a few hours ago. But apparently, Bucky was the sort of guy who stuck like a barnacle once you won him over. Little wonder, Sam thought, given everything they’d talked about on the flight. The guy was probably starved for a little basic human kindness. 

Sam frowned to himself, guiltily. It wasn’t simple human kindness that had prompted him to reach out. He still thought Bucky was kind of dirty-hot, and he could’ve sworn he’d caught Bucky checking him out in return. He really wanted to – drag Bucky home with him. Let this guy wreck him, scruff and serial killer face and all. 

But, Sam promptly scolded himself, that was a little inappropriate. Bucky had just gotten out of a severely abusive relationship. The last thing he needed was to be pushed into another relationship, even a casual one, too soon. And speaking of _too soon_ , a familiar guilt was beginning to knot up in Sam’s chest. The same guilt that had led to him canceling or screwing up every single date he’d tried to go on since he’d lost Riley. 

“Hey,” Bucky said, turning back and surveying him. “Everything OK?”

Sam schooled his face, trying to keep his turmoil to himself. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

Eventually, they reached the baggage claim area. They located the carousel where the Chicago flight’s baggage was due to be deposited, and waited. Both men had fallen quiet. Bucky kept a worried eye on Sam, and Sam wondered just how much of his ragged mental state was still showing.

“So,” Sam said. He cleared his throat, and hoped he sounded calm and conversational. “What area of D.C. are you going to be living in?”

“Oh, uh,” Bucky said. “Steve and Peggy are renting a house in… I think he said Woodley Park?”

Sam whistled. “You sure moved on up,” he said. “I’m in Bethesda.”

“Is that far away?” Bucky asked. “From Woodley Park, I mean.”

“Depends,” he said. “The Metro ride probably wouldn’t be too bad, I think.”

“Okay,” Bucky said. “But we’re not going to be, neighbors or anything.”

“Not really.” Sam fingered the strap of his bag, wondering if Bucky was trying to ask what he was thinking, _Are we going to see each other again?_ He couldn’t quite find the words to ask it either, and so he settled on a tame: “You’ll probably like Woodley Park. You’ll be near the zoo, for one thing.”

Bucky sagged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Got something against zoos?” Sam said. 

“No, but…” Bucky pulled in his lips, as if he’d been about to say something, and then decided against it. “Yeah, it’ll probably be nice.”

A buzzer sounded, and both men turned. The baggage carousel groaned to life. A moment later, the chute began to spit out pieces of luggage, one by one. 

It occurred to Sam that getting his bag was one step closer to leaving the airport, and that was one step closer to – possibly not ever seeing Bucky again. He didn’t even know what the hell Bucky was short for. Without his real name or anything else, he had no way to find him again once they parted ways, short of wandering around Woodley Park and hoping he spotted a guy with long hair. 

He wondered if Bucky cared. It sounded like this Steve person was a pretty good guy, so he’d probably get Bucky set up with everything he needed. In a few weeks, Sam might be no more than a vague memory of _that guy I talked to on the airplane._ Or maybe, _that weirdo who needed me to hold his hand._ Sam frowned to himself, surprised at how much that pained him.

In that moment, Sam felt every single second of the last three years he’d been alone. He always found it so easy to talk to people. But somehow, the idea of turning to Bucky and saying something as simple as _hey, you want to grab coffee sometime?_ or _you wanna take a trip to that zoo?_ felt impossible. It had been so long since he’d last tried to ask anybody anything like that. Even longer since he’d been genuinely afraid the other person wasn’t interested. The last person he’d really taken that risk with was Riley, and Riley couldn’t have been more obvious about his feelings if he’d announced it with fireworks.

Sam spotted a familiar red-and-gray suitcase on the conveyor belt, and his heart sank.

“That’s mine,” he said, going to retrieve it.

He hauled it off the belt and turned around, half-expecting to see that Bucky had walked off. But no, Bucky was still watching him, eyes flicking carefully from Sam to the bags and back.

"You have anything coming?" Sam said, rolling his suitcase over.

"Nah." Bucky nudged his backpack strap. "This is it for me."

“Oh. Right.” Of course. Homeless. Sam felt like an ass. But-- "Then did you just walk me to the baggage claim 'cause you were being nice?"

“Actually, Steve said he'd meet me here," Bucky said. 

“Oh.” Sam deflated. Now he wondered if he’d misgauged the whole thing, with Bucky walking him here. “Well you know, I wasn’t complaining.”

“For once,” Bucky said. 

Sam tsked. “You know you gave me plenty of reason.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s gaze drifted over Sam, a smile curving up the corners of his mouth. “You just couldn’t shut up about me.”

“Hey," Sam answered, "you were the one who decided to sit his ass down right next to me.”

“It was an assigned seat,” Bucky protested.

Sam cocked an eyebrow. “At the bar?” 

Bucky squawked in mild embarrassment, and looked away. “All right, all right,” he said. “So, uh, do you have anyone coming to give you a ride home?” 

Okay. A slightly awkward change of subject. Sam could go with that. “Nah. Gonna catch the Metro. There’s a stop at this airport.”

“Really?” Bucky said, frowning. “But you look exhausted.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean…” Bucky said. “Well, maybe I could get Stevie to give you a ride.”

“You haven’t seen the guy in a while, right? Don’t make him drive out to Bethesda first thing.” Sam crossed his arms. “I’ll be fine. Actually, I kind of want to zone out on the train for a while.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. “OK, yeah. Sorry if that was - weird to offer.”

“Don't worry, weird's way out of the gate with you.”

Bucky snorted. “Shut up, asshole.”

"Well, if you insist," Sam said. And then suddenly, he saw a chance. Fighting down a bolt of anxiety, he ventured: “Shame, 'cause I was about to give you my number.”

Bucky stopped cold, his mouth hanging slightly open. "You – wait, really?"

“Yeah.” Sam's nerves tightened, but he kept going. “I mean, I know I don't have the greatest track record at getting you to accept stuff...”

“Are you ever gonna let that go?” Bucky muttered, scrambling for his phone. “’Course I want your number.”

Relief flooded through Sam, his chest pounding a little more wildly than necessary. _It’s just a number, dude, calm down._ But he didn’t miss the way Bucky seemingly couldn’t get his phone out fast enough, and the careful way he put in the number. He texted Sam _hi_ to test, and Sam sent him back a beer emoji.

Bucky laughed out loud. “Dick.”

Then, after putting away their phones, there was a long pause. Bucky shifted, his eyes flicking down to Sam's mouth and back up. Sam might have been imagining it, but he could swear he saw his own relief reflected on Bucky’s face. They were going to see each other again, after this. Maybe. 

Bucky licked his lips, and took a breath. “Sam,” he said. “You know, I—”

_“Bucky?"_

The two men turned instantly. A blond guy was striding towards them. He was tall and muscular – Jesus, he could’ve been a linebacker. This must be the Steve guy Bucky had been talking about on the flight. 

Steve hurried towards Bucky, and then flung his arms around him for a deep hug, which Bucky returned. Jealousy prickled in Sam’s chest for a moment. Then he caught sight of Steve’s face, which was bright red. He looked about two seconds away from a sob, as if Bucky were back from the dead. 

Right. They hadn’t spoken in two years. Sam softened, and backed a step away. 

“Bucky,” Steve said. “Thank God. You made it.”

“’Course I made it. I’m broke, not stupid,” Bucky answered. But he was patting Steve’s shoulder, his expression fond.

“I know, but…” Steve pulled back from the hug, and noticed Sam for the first time. “Who’s this?”

"This is Sam," Bucky said. "We met on the flight. He helped me out a lot."

Sam frowned. He couldn't actually recall doing that, but it seemed to be the magic thing to say to Steve, who lit up with appreciation.

"Sam," Bucky continued, "this is the friend I was telling you about. Steve. He and his wife are foolishly letting me crash at their place."

"It's not foolish," Steve protested. "I _still_ can't believe you weren’t going to tell me you were homel--" he caught himself, realizing Sam was still there, and stuck out a hand. "Sorry. Nice to meet you, Sam."

Sam shook his hand. "Likewise, Steve." He looked over at Bucky. "I'll let you guys catch up."

"Peg's got the car out front," Steve said to Bucky. "You ready?"

"Yeah," said Bucky, but his attention remained on Sam. "Are you sure you don't want a ride? Stevie here’s a real pushover. He'll do it."

"Hey!" Steve protested.

"I'm good. Maybe next time," Sam said, laughing. "Take care, Bucky."

"You too, Sam."

Sam lingered in place for a few moments, watching Bucky and Steve walk out of the terminal. Steve had thrown his arm across Bucky’s shoulders as if afraid he’d drift away otherwise. He talked excitedly, while Bucky kept his head down and occasionally mumbled something back. It was plain, even from far away, that they had history. 

Sam had forgotten what it felt like to have that with someone. He’d left behind a lot of people when he moved from New York to D.C., and then he’d more or less buried himself in his work at the veterinary clinic. He sometimes went for beers with some of the other folks who worked there, and he was well-liked at the widowers support group. But for all his talk of rebuilding, he hadn’t let anyone in again. Not like that.

He lifted his left hand, staring down at it, and flexed his fingers. The memory of Bucky’s calloused thumb going back and forth across his skin wouldn’t leave his thoughts, nor would the burn of Bucky’s pale eyes, nor the softness of his voice as he asked if Sam was OK. Not in a million years would Sam have envisioned _Bucky_ as the person who might spark the urge to try again. But somehow, he couldn’t stop smiling at the idea of calling Bucky’s number, maybe trying to take him out. Someplace casual and low-key, where they could just relax and see what came next. There was a cute little Vietnamese cafe Sam thought he remembered near Woodley Park…

He shook himself out of his thoughts. Outside, Bucky and Steve were gone. Sam closed his left hand, tucking it carefully into his coat pocket, and made his way to the Metro.


	4. Bucky

_Six Months Later_

 

Bucky stood over the sink in Sam's kitchen, rinsing out a mixing bowl. 

Outside the sky was dark gray, a winter sleet falling. But inside it was cozy. Behind Bucky, on the stove, a pan of chicken korma with some vegetables bubbled away, its aroma of meat and onion and spices filling the air. Rice simmered in a pot on another burner. The radio hummed, an NPR interview with a scientist who worked in the space program, and her voice was even and relaxing as she spun out descriptions of other galaxies.

Bucky inhaled, smiling. Sam was due home from work soon, and he'd probably be extra appreciative of home-cooked food on a wet, cold day like today. 

The mixing bowl still under the running water, he paused. Sam would protest Bucky doing the dishes. In Sam’s view, the person who cooked was always banished from clean-up duty. But it was still... hard. For Bucky to rid himself of the instinct that he'd be punished if he left anything undone. Even though he _knew_ Sam was nothing like Brock used to be.

There were a lot of things Bucky struggled to un-program. He still had nightmares about a strangling grip at his throat. He couldn't listen to even mildly tense discussions between Steve and Peggy without crashing out of the room. He still flinched whenever he saw police officers, and got randomly nervous whenever he was in a crowd, as if Brock might have tracked him down. Bucky sometimes found himself getting angry when he thought back on the worst of it, white-blind angry enough that he’d broken things in his room. He tried to only let that happen when he was alone. He’d rather _die_ than show Sam or Steve or anyone else that side of him. 

Those were the bad days. 

But Bucky had good days, too. And he had more and more of them lately. Turned out Sam had been right that the main thing now was just rebuilding. Slowly, over the last half-year, Bucky had started to cobble together something like… a _life._

He had a job again. It was menial, part-time work he’d found at an independent cafe/bookstore in Adams Morgan, but it was still a job. He unloaded books when they came in, sorting and filing them, reshelving them when customers strewed them around the store. He cleaned up the cafe area and the bathrooms, and every now and then, he’d work the cash register. The work was simple, but Bucky found that was good for him. He came in early in the morning, usually before sunrise, and completed his little tasks in solitary quiet. It was like a meditation.

He'd started going to physical therapy again, every Thursday morning. Brock used to snarl that PT was pointless, since it wasn’t like it would grow his arm back. _So why are you letting that so-called doctor touch you all over? ‘Cause you like it?_ It was hard to silence that voice in the back of his head sometimes, hard not to flinch back from the therapist instinctively. But Bucky kept at it, improving his balance and his strength. He only wore his prosthetic intermittently now, only when he felt like it. The rest of the time he just knotted up his shirtsleeve over where his left arm ended. The prosthetic, he had come to realize, was something Brock used to militantly insist on so he didn’t look like a _fuckin’ freak._ Nobody in his life cared anymore. Not Steve or Peggy, not the people at the bookstore, not Sam. So Bucky didn’t either. 

Bucky had joined a support group. He’d found a group for domestic violence survivors that met in the basement of an old church in Georgetown. It was a bit of a long walk, but it was worth it, since the group was calm and nobody pressured him to talk. He’d even made a friend in the group; Natasha was the only attendee more reluctant to share than he was. They now had a little ritual of going to a craft beer place afterwards, playing darts, and mostly continuing to not talk about the thing they had in common. It was revelatory to Bucky that both Steve and Sam, independent of each other, had been proud when he mentioned making a new friend.

He had family again, or at least, the closest thing. Steve had gone predictably overboard at Bucky’s arrival. He’d bought Bucky new clothes, tried to cook meals he thought he remembered Bucky liked (and hilariously failed, because his culinary skills hadn’t improved a lick since foster care), sat him down with disability paperwork so he’d have some extra money, taken him to a baseball game like old times. Steve didn’t hate Bucky. It turned out Steve had never hated him. He’d just been heartbroken and bewildered about what he might have done to make Bucky cut him off. Bucky discovered that actually felt much, much worse than being hated. But Steve was overjoyed to see him again, and so Bucky did his best to just go along with that, no matter how ashamed he was of himself. 

Bucky still hadn’t told Steve many details of what Brock had done to him. It had taken weeks before he’d finally, shakingly disclosed the nature of the support group he attended, and let Steve figure it out. Steve’s face – uncomprehending, and then devastated, and then _enraged_ – would be burned into Bucky’s mind for a long time. Peggy and Bucky had practically needed to tranquilize him to keep him from getting on a plane to Chicago _that instant_ and hunting Brock down. 

Same old Stevie. He was protective. And after finding out about Brock, he’d worried over Bucky’s new relationship with Sam, but not for long. Even Steve couldn’t deny that Bucky was flourishing these days, especially compared to the twitchy, withdrawn guy he’d picked up from the airport.

That wasn’t all Sam’s doing. But being with Sam was… really, really good for him. 

They’d had their first date a week after the flight from Chicago. With Bucky recovering from his abuse – he’d reached the point where he could call it that now, _abuse_ – and with this being Sam’s first real attempt at a relationship since Riley’s death, they were both careful not to rush things. Six months in, they still kept their dates casual: one of the Smithsonian museums and ice cream, lunch at a casual little Vietnamese place, a trip to the zoo where they acted like tourists and Sam chattered his ear off once they reached the bird house.

Their dates were casual. But Bucky increasingly knew his own feelings weren’t. More and more nowadays, they dragged out their dates for as long as they could, and almost always ended things at Sam’s apartment, tangled up in Sam’s sheets. Bucky was a little obsessed with Sam’s natural scent, and practically purred whenever Sam’s deft fingers played with his hair. They still bickered over stupid shit and called each other _dick_ and _asshole_ , and somehow, that made Bucky feel more like himself than he had in years. 

He’d started to look forward to seeing Sam even when they didn’t have anything specific planned, in a way that felt like a physical pull in his chest. Peggy, lately, had begun to tease _you’re mooning again!_ whenever Bucky smiled down at his phone upon receiving a text from Sam. He’d even developed a weird Pavlovian fondness for the D.C. Metro’s red line, which he now associated with going to Sam’s apartment in Bethesda. 

Bucky even had a key to Sam’s place now. It was a single-bedroom apartment, with dated wood floors and minimal, ragtag furnishings. Sam hadn’t put much effort into his home beyond basic cleanliness, having admitted he mostly threw himself into his work at the bird clinic and into his routine at the gym. But it was still a home. It was where Bucky and Sam could be alone together. It was where they had sex, a little haltingly at first thanks to their respective pasts, but that was now starting to give way to ease and confidence and joy in the feel of each other’s skin. It was where they cuddled on the couch watching bad TV, and Sam tended to adorably doze off on Bucky’s shoulder. It was where Bucky had started bringing over groceries and cooking sometimes, a task that was like his work at the bookstore, solitary and tranquil.

Bucky had started to daydream about living there, even though he knew it was still too soon after the end of things with Brock. And it would _definitely_ be a while before Sam was ready for that. 

Sam still had his own share of bad days too. He grew heavy-eyed and lethargic on key anniversaries, like Riley's birthday, or the date that would’ve been their wedding. He occasionally stumbled across mementos of Riley among his belongings, and got unexpectedly tight-throated and emotional: an old sweatshirt, a photograph from flight school, a postcard that had a picture of London on one side and Riley’s big excited scrawl ending in _MISS YOU, SAMMY_ on the other. And Sam still froze up sometimes when Bucky did anything too romantic for him, guilt written plainly across his face, before he forced himself to shake it off and keep going. 

But bad days and all, Sam was determined to rebuild too. And Bucky hoped, fiercely, that he was half as good for Sam as Sam was for him. 

Bucky’s phone buzzed, loud and sudden on the kitchen counter. He jumped, knocking over the bowl he’d been cleaning.

 _home in 5. u there?_ read a text from Sam.

Bucky's face crumpled. He’d mentioned once, to Sam, that he hated hearing the front door open unexpectedly. Used to be that meant Brock was home, and that violence was sure to follow. Sam had looked horrified, and then the very next day, he’d begun texting Bucky a preliminary alert that he would be home soon. It wasn’t something Bucky had any right to expect. But it did help, and so Sam wouldn’t hear of doing otherwise. 

_Yep,_ Bucky texted back. _Making dinner._

The phone buzzed again almost immediately. _Hell Yeah!!! maybe home in 3._

Bucky grinned to himself, and went back to the dishes. _You’re mooning again,_ he could practically hear Peggy saying. He didn’t care.

He’d just finished and set the last bowl out to dry when the door opened. He was mentally prepared for it, and his shoulders only twitched a _little_ at the sound.

"You weren't kidding about dinner," Sam called from the doorway. "Smells awesome in here. What in the world are you making?"

“Chicken korma,” Bucky called back.

He heard Sam shucking off his coat, hat and gloves, and then slipping out of his shoes. “Didn’t we have that at… that place? A while back?” 

“ _You_ had about five plates of it,” Bucky answered. “Unlike those of us who go to buffets, to, you know, actually explore a variety of food.”

“Hey,” Sam answered, entering the kitchen. “I like what I like.”

His gaze went right to Bucky, sweeping up his body, and he was smiling. Bucky wasn’t used to that, yet – someone coming home and being immediately happy to see him. Flirting with him, even. Sam rubbed his hands together to warm up, his shoulders tight and his teeth chattery, and his attention was soon drawn by the hot food on the stove.

“That seriously looks amazing.” Sam approached, his fingers drifting towards the pot lid.

“Don’t you dare,” Bucky chided, turning. “You’ll let all the heat out.” 

“Okay, okay.” Sam peered up, impish. 

Bucky realized a second too late what was coming, as Sam pressed the back of his cold, cold hand against his cheek. Bucky yelped a laugh and jumped back.

“You’re freezing!” Bucky squawked. Then he took Sam’s arm and used it to pull him in closer. “If you wanted to warm up, you could’ve just asked, asshole.”

Sam allowed himself to be pulled in. He slid his hands down Bucky’s body, and locked a firm grip around his waist. He rested his head on Bucky’s shoulder, nuzzling into his soft shirt. Bucky let Sam curl against him for warmth, rubbed a hand up and down his back. The radio still played in the background, the scientist still talking about new galaxies. It wasn’t exactly music, but they still swayed back and forth on their feet for a few moments.

“Mmmm,” Sam said after a moment. “Glad you came over today.”

Bucky pressed a light kiss to Sam’s temple. “Me too.”

Sam lifted his head, a heavy-lidded smile on his face, and caught Bucky’s mouth with his own. They kissed long and slow, Sam guiding Bucky away from the stove and pushing him back against the opposite counter. Bucky’s lips trailed along Sam’s jaw and down his neck, Sam squirming and doing his best to return in kind. Their hips pressed together, and Bucky’s fingers dug into Sam’s shirt. Desire rocketed through his body. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d stumbled out of the kitchen wrapped around each other. But—

“Sam,” Bucky panted. “The food’s going to burn...”

Sam nipped kisses along Bucky’s jaw. “Smoke alarm still works.”

“But it’s…” Bucky protested, unable to keep himself from groaning and pulling Sam in tighter. “It’s… not going to taste good.”

“You know I’m not picky.”

“Hmph.” Bucky met Sam’s mouth for another kiss. “Just what I want to hear after sweating over a hot stove all afternoon.”

This finally caused Sam to break it off. He leaned back, a frown on his face. “You didn’t really, did you?”

“Well,” Bucky admitted. “It wasn’t really _all_ afternoon.”

“Okay, but…” Sam brushed a strand of hair off Bucky’s face. “You still know you don’t have to do stuff like that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” This time it was Bucky who leaned forward and kissed Sam. “I wanted to.”

He didn’t add _for you_ , but it seemed to hang in the air. Sam looked away, his face tight and unreadable. 

Bucky, fighting down an instinctive little panic that he’d _made Sam upset_ , reminded himself this was normal. That as much as Sam wanted to move on, he still struggled sometimes when the reality of it hit too unexpectedly. That Bucky just needed to be patient, because Sam was always so incredibly patient with him, and because Sam always tried so hard not to let it get the better of him.

Sure enough, after a moment or two Sam looked up, having fought off whatever guilt had come over him. He smiled at Bucky, fingers soft as they cupped the back of his neck. 

“Well, OK,” Sam finally said. “But I better not catch you washing any of these dishes later.”

Bucky barked out a laugh. “OK,” he said. “You won’t.”

“Good.” They shared another kiss. And then Sam murmured against Bucky’s cheek: “Love you.”

He said it so softly Bucky almost didn’t hear it. But he did, and he went absolutely still, eyes wide. Still pressed together, he felt Sam tense as well.

“That, uh, weird?” Sam asked after a moment.

Bucky swallowed. “Don’t worry,” he managed, still too floored to form proper thoughts. “Weird’s way out of the gate with you.”

“Asshole,” Sam laughed.

“Yeah, well.” Bucky placed a kiss to Sam’s cheek. “I love you too, dick.”

At this he felt Sam relax. They hung onto each other for a few more moments, trading kisses back and forth, and then pulled apart. 

They said no more about it, but that was okay. Sam went off to change clothes, since his socks and pants were wet from sleet, while Bucky went back to the stove. He couldn’t stop replaying that soft little _Love you_ in his mind again and again, and he was smiling so hard it ached.

The korma had finished simmering, and Bucky took a taste of the sauce. He frowned to himself, and decided it needed more cream. While he attended to pouring it in, stirring and re-tasting, he idly listened to Sam putter around. Sam hummed to himself, in the upbeat and slightly off-key way Bucky had grown fond of over the last six months, as he changed clothes. Clad in sweatpants and a tight thermal shirt, Sam returned to the kitchen. He brushed a hand across Bucky’s back fondly on his way to retrieve plates and utensils from their respective cabinets, and then picked up his humming again as he set the table.

The radio still played, the sleet still fell outside. As Bucky took another taste of his sauce, he realized he was at total peace.


End file.
